Listen To Me
by NeonRoses
Summary: BBC Sherlock fanfiction. Post-Reichenbach. John is alone in the flat. He closes his eyes and speaks all the words he wishes Sherlock could hear.


**AUTHOR'S NOTE - This takes place soon after The Reichenbach Fall. Read. Enjoy. Review. Lots of love, x**

John bit back a sob as he shuffled into Sherlock's bedroom for the first time since 'the fall.' The bed wasn't neat, like he was expecting. The sheets were all over the place, as if Sherlock had jumped out earlier, throwing the pillows aside haphazardly as a metaphorical light bulb lit up over his head.

John stepped forward and lightly caressed the cold sheets between his fingers. Night after night, Sherlock had laid here - wide awake and deducing cases as John slept soundly upstairs. John partly wished he'd have come down more often in the middle of the night and sat on the end of the bed, watching Sherlock tying the loose ends of cases together, those bright blue eyes alight with excitement and passion.

John knelt by the bed now, bringing the nearest pillow to his face, breathing it in softly. He could smell Sherlock's shampoo and very light traces of aftershave. John couldn't bear it any longer. He swallowed a sob once again and stood up slowly before leaving the room.

Sitting back in his old armchair, John began wringing his hands together as he stared ahead at Sherlock's empty black leather seat. It looked brand new. It had no scuff marks or rips like John's chair. No, it looked unused and in almost perfect condition to sell.

But John was never going sell it. Ever. Not in a million years.

John took a shaky breath in and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine Sherlock was sitting opposite him. For a brief moment, he tried to allow himself to smile - to feel Sherlock's presence.

"Sherlock." John paused and fought against the lump-like feeling in his throat as he said his best friend's name out loud. "Sherlock - listen to me. Because I have a lot I need to say. It's not any easier for me to sit and talk to you here than it is at the graveyard. But please, just listen-"

John clutched the edge of his armchair, his eyes still closed. He was, as ever, fighting against the desire to break down into tears.

"Sometimes, I admit, you made me feel like a prize pillock... a complete and utter idiot. But then again, everyone in your presence was an idiot. You had this shining light around you that drew me in... I couldn't ignore you for a second. Ever. You always had to have the last word. You could always ignore me though, remember? I was ordinary John Watson. Ordinary as any other man."

John stopped, eyes still closed, then began again.

"Don't laugh when I say this Sherlock, but sometimes Lestrade would come up to me and tell me I'd been staring at you. I personally don't remember that, but I wouldn't be surprised if I _had been_ staring at you. I admired you. I- still- admire you. Kids often have a hero to look up to, don't they? Like a character or an actor or a pop star or their father or something. I had you. You were and still are what I'd consider a hero. They do exist, Sherlock, trust me, they do. You _are_ one of them. You are-"

His voice cracked. He couldn't stop the first tear escaping. It rolled down his cheek, leaving a shiny wet line. Eyes still closed.

"You're really going to laugh at this one Sherlock, but when you looked scared that time in Baskerville, I just wanted to hold you. Comfort _you._" John giggled despite himself, expecting the figment of his imagination opposite to erupt into that deep laughter he'd so rarely heard.

"I wanted to comfort you. But you, you stubborn bastard, wouldn't have permitted it. So I just used words. And as usual, you pissed me off to the point where I had to run outside."

"But honestly now, Sherlock. Whatever you claimed to be… whatever other people thought you were, you were always just Sherlock Holmes to me. My best friend. The brilliant, unstoppable, beautiful genius."

John opened his eyes and began to cry freely now. The seat opposite was empty. The flat was silent, apart from the heavy breathing and gentle sobs of the army doctor.

"Y-You just had to die, didn't you? In one of the most dramatic ways possible. Typical. _Quite_ typical. I never got a chance to tell you the one thing… the one most important thing, Sherlock. I loved you. I loved you, you idiot… you heartless bastard. I still... love you. But now it's too late…"


End file.
